This world is not
of this world.
Whose world
then
is this?
And whose words
are these,
let loose among
the leaves so low
and yet so green
of Trillium
lining a mountain path,
these words seeking
a reef of shade
to haunt with the news of light?
Where are you?
You are but the fable of a babbling
the melting of a snowbank,
the trembling of a shadow in the ferns.
For now this is the plight:
No world claims these words,
these orphans who deny their father.
Contemplative Ecologies 